Two prisons in nine months, a pack of cigarettes for $100: the story of the captivity of 20-year-old National Guard conscript Danil Chebotarev
Source: Novynarnia
Author: Nadiya Zinchenko
Danilo Chebotarev, a 21-year-old National Guard soldier, spent nine months in captivity in two penal colonies in the occupied territory of Donetsk Oblast.
In April 2021, the young man from Pereyaslav was drafted into the National Guard of Ukraine for his mandatory military service. He served in Mariupol, in the convoy company of the 12th Special Operations Brigade of the National Guard of Ukraine. From February 28, 2022, the conscript remained in the besieged city. After escaping from the blockaded Azovstal plant, he ended up in a penal colony in Olenivka; three months later, he was transferred to Horlivka; he was released in February 2023 as part of a prisoner exchange.
After undergoing rehabilitation at three hospitals in Kyiv, Danylo is now serving again—in the National Guard’s “Azov” regiment. The young man tells “Novynarnia” about his prison experience and life in captivity.
“I was finally able to wash my hands properly a month and a half after being taken prisoner.”
Danylo Chebotarev in the ranks of the National Guard
…The news that a 20-year-old soldier had been taken captive from “Azovstal” came as a tremendous shock. Danylo says he was initially skeptical of this information. But according to an official order dated May 15May 15 through May 21, 2022, all 2,500 defenders of Mariupol who remained at the plant—the “Azov” Regiment, border guards, and marines— and the Territorial Defense Forces—were transported by bus to the barracks of the penal colony in Olenivka, located in the occupied Kalmius district of Donetsk Oblast.
The initial plan was to distribute them among the barracks. Once the commotion died down, the registration procedures began.
Before the prisoners were brought to Olenivka, the “Deneris” were in charge there. Then the “Rusaks,” as Danylo calls them, took over.
At first, more than 600 people lived on the second floor of the barracks alone, even though it was designed to accommodate no more than 200 people. Three people slept on each bed; some slept under the beds or in the hallways. They walked carefully so as not to step on someone’s arm or leg.
Three days passed, and the “Azov” soldiers were moved to barracks 9–10 and 1–2.
During the first month, there were two phases—many were taken to other “zones.”
500-liter barrels were set up for the prisoners of war. A fire truck would come periodically to fill the barrels.
“The first month, I was in shock from what was happening, so I just slept. I’d wake up to go to the bathroom and eat. I was very surprised when water started flowing through the pipes. Because we’d come in dirty, and we’d been sitting there like that for about a month. It was raining; we had a table, and we’d scoop water from it with our hands to wash them. “I was able to wash my hands properly after a month and a half,” recalls Danylo Chebotaryov.
Once the pipes were repaired, the water supply became more or less stable.
“One man knew something about electricity. He made a homemade kettle. It consisted of one thin wooden strip and two metal strips tied together with string, to which wires were attached. We plugged each of these wires—the ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ ones—into an outlet and heated water. We had an apricot tree and a grapevine growing there—we’d pluck leaves from them or break off branches and brew tea that way.”
“I wanted to dry a piece of bread so I could take it out and smell it, because I was afraid I’d forget the smell.”
We woke up at 6:00 a.m. to the “pidorpesny,” that is, the Russian national anthem. At first, the “Azov” fighters sang the Ukrainian anthem: that is, the Russian anthem was playing, but the “Azov” fighters confidently sang “Shche ne vmerla.” At first, the administration was shocked by such defiance, but then they recovered and punished them. The “Azov” fighters were punished repeatedly. And just to be safe, their barracks were kept under constant surveillance so they wouldn’t communicate with the other prisoners, Chebotarev says.
Then everyone went to their sleeping quarters and waited for breakfast at 7:00 a.m. For the first month, the prisoners were fed extremely poorly. Danylo lost 23 kg while in captivity. Given his tall stature, the weight loss was very noticeable. When he met his mother, Lesya, he later told her that he hadn’t tasted bread for two months.
Danylo even wanted to dry out a piece of bread so he could take it out and smell it—he was afraid of forgetting the scent.
“Mom, have you seen those photos where a newly released prisoner is looking at an apple? We all looked at bread like that!” says Danylo.
Lesya’s mother cries and recalls that when they met, she wasn’t hugging her son, but a skeleton wrapped in a jacket. Danylo is 190 cm tall. When he arrived in Horlivka from Olenivka, he weighed 57 kg; when he left, he weighed 63 kg.
In the morning, they were given porridge: barley, pearl barley, and wheat. There could have been more food: someone from the “Azov” leadership had arranged to have their own food delivered.
The young man recounts: “There were two trucks with food parked near the ‘zone.’ Food was taken from them to the dining hall. But it never made it to the tables. There was no fish or meat in the dishes. However, there might have been strands of meat floating in the soup, along with fish tails and heads. For lunch, there was water with a couple of potatoes, a few strips of beet, and carrots. The Russians call this ‘shchi.’ There was also sauerkraut floating in it.
We were given white bread. At first, they put imported round loaves on the tables, cut into four pieces; later, into eight: they gradually cut back on the bread ration.
They served tea in the morning and at dinner, sometimes brewed a second or third time. However, it was sweetened only every other time.
Those who worked in the kitchen didn’t skimp on the ingredients. They added the minimum amount of butter. For lunch, they prepared only soup. For dinner—wheat or barley porridge. Barley groats were served very rarely. There was also sauerkraut for dinner. But if they cooked cabbage soup for lunch, they wouldn’t serve cabbage in the evening.”
The camp commander forbade everyone—both staff and prisoners—from picking fruit from the trees on the grounds. It was easier for the administration staff to break this rule: they’d pick a piece of fruit when no one was looking, eat it, and forget about it. It wasn’t the same for the prisoners of war: unless a cherry happened to fall, someone would dash out of the ranks and experience a moment of joy.
At every meal, the prisoners could only watch as fruit fell or rotted on the trees. This took a psychological toll, Danilo recalls.
“The sign was still there—‘club.’ Prisoners were taken there for interrogations, torture, and DNA testing.”
“The guard on duty selected a group of people for work. That group would go to work. The work crew had its own privileges: they went to meals not three times, but five or six times. The work was like this: sweeping in front of the ‘club,’ for example. That was the Rusaks’ headquarters. Only the sign remained—‘club.’ Prisoners were taken there for interrogations, torture, DNA testing, and fingerprinting. Investigators would come from Donetsk and run a search in the database for all the information about a prisoner: who he was, where he lived, where he served (if he served), and so on. They recruited prisoners from the Donetsk region or Crimea: “Why did you turn against us? You’re from Crimea—so you’re one of us.”
If some prisoners of war rebelled or lost their minds, they were immediately taken to the isolation ward,” Danilo continues. “It’s a cell-like room where they could do whatever they wanted to them—torture them, beat them.”
There was this guy—it’s hard to call him a staff member—a local thug from the “DPR” who tortured people—hanging them by their genitals or beating them to death. The prisoners called him “Kiryusha.”
In fact, he was on a business trip to Olenivka—probably showing his colleagues how to torture prisoners of war. Then he returned to Horlivka and served there as the head of one of the shifts in the administration.”
At eight o’clock in the morning, the administration would hand over the shift, and each time they would come to check on the prisoners—to see how many were there and whether anyone had escaped. There was also a roll call at 8:00 p.m.
The captives were reminded to take care of themselves: to wash and get their hair cut, because there were fleas in the barracks.
Ukrainian captive medics examined all the sick prisoners. At first, this was done weekly; later, daily. Common illnesses among the prisoners included diarrhea and back pain. There was a shortage of painkillers, so not everyone received them.
Life in the Barracks
“In reality, we always had time to ourselves. Some people read books or slept, but in Horlivka, sleeping was strictly forbidden: the punishment was 200 squats, 20 lashes, or something else. Some people talked or did crafts, such as making cigarette holders. Some even ran a little business: selling bread or uniforms to the “vertukhai”—the guards from the administration—in exchange for cigarettes. Or they’d trade hryvnias or dollars for cigarettes.
The “vertukhai” got the cigarettes. $100 per pack.
Then these cigarettes were distributed throughout the barracks, because people had money too, and that’s how they made a living. For example, a “vertukha” would sell you a carton of cigarettes for 2,500 dollars, and you’d resell it [retail] throughout the barracks for 4,000. Some bought a pack, others bought two. This business went on until the searches took place. Every month, when the shift changed, “guards” from different regions of Russia would arrive and search the prisoners. They found silver, gold, and money. The prisoners hid their valuables wherever they could: in the toilet, wedged into cracks between bricks, or buried with whatever materials were at hand—pieces of slate—somewhere on the grounds.
The first shift of the administration conducted a search.
They allegedly found a total of 500,000 hryvnias and 40,000 dollars in cash on the prisoners.”
Text messages to loved ones for a piece of bread
There was a Bible in the colony, and even in Ukrainian. Danylo read it. There was no priest in Olenivka. Instead, at the 27th colony in Horlivka, prisoners were taken to a room to see a priest of the Moscow Patriarchate, who told them that the Russian Patriarchate was the best, and that the rest had gone astray. There was no Communion; just a one-and-a-half-hour lecture with a prayer. He didn’t force them to pray, though. The priest read passages from the Bible and interpreted them as he saw fit.
Games, movies, and cards were banned in both colonies. In Olenivka, someone had backgammon and dominoes. But they had to be hidden so the “guards” wouldn’t take them away. For the first few months, playing wasn’t forbidden, but restrictions were later imposed.
In Olenivka, searches were often conducted hastily, so it was possible to sneak a phone in. It’s strange that Olenivka is located far from a cell tower, but cell service worked there, says Danylo. You could send text messages and make calls.
You could even pick up Ukrainian Radio. Until September 1, Danylo was up to date on all the news. Then he was transferred to Horlivka. There, such a luxury as communication wasn’t to be expected, and smuggling anything in seemed impossible.
In Olenivka, in exchange for bread, you could ask someone with a phone to send a text message to your family. Sometimes the guys even watched movies on their smartphones—ones they’d downloaded back when they were still fighting in Mariupol. But an order came to hand over the phones, or else they were threatened with searches. Danila, an officer from the barracks, handed his over.
They weren’t allowed to write paper letters. That opportunity only arose in Horlivka, just before they were released for the exchange.
“Exchanges can fall through. Among those announced, there may be someone who refuses to leave.”
There’s no logic to how the Russians compile the exchange list, says Chebotarev. An administration official comes and reads out the names from a sheet of paper. He reads out 15 names and orders them to pack civilian clothes and belongings. In the best-case scenario, these lucky ones are taken away the next day. Those left behind don’t know where the people were taken or why they were taken away.
“It was a typical day; breakfast and lunch had come and gone. It was sunny but cold. In Horlivka, the prisoners walked around in slippers until December,” recalls Danylo. “I popped into the boiler room, the only place in the barracks where it was warm. About five minutes later, I heard my last name called. I asked the guys what was going on. They told me that Mykola Mykolayovych was calling me. He was the shift supervisor, one of the decent guys. He treated the prisoners humanely. Mykola Mykolayovych ordered us to pack our things and get ready for transport. With each transport to the colony, the guards take our belongings—mostly clothes. They take whatever they like. I handed my belongings out to my fellow prisoners and waited. Time dragged on slowly.”
It’s worth noting here that exchanges can sometimes fall through. This is how it happens: among ten people, there might be someone who refuses to leave. In that case, the entire group is sent back to the “zone.” Reasons for refusal include: prison may be waiting at home after the exchange because he committed crimes or deserted his unit without permission. Or he may have a wife and family in the occupied territory and hopes to be released soon to join them.
On the day Chebotaryov was told about the exchange, the guys wrote their relatives’ phone numbers on the folds of his clothes.
The next day, Danila was finally exchanged. Before lunch, they were told to get ready and hand over their “bedding”—a mattress, pillow, towel, bedspread, and blanket. They took him to the search cell and searched him.
They led Danilo to the gate, ordered him to sit down—head down, hands behind his head. A cramped car was waiting outside the gate. They forced him to put on a hood and wrapped it tightly with duct tape; they also wrapped his hands very tightly with the same tape. They put him in the car. There were three prisoners in the car in total. They picked each one up separately.
Later, on the bus, the guards threatened: “If you get caught a second time, you won’t make it out.” Upon hearing this threat, Danylo Chebotaryov finally realized that they were indeed taking him toward Ukraine. He couldn’t believe it.
It was February 16, 2023. Only after his hands and head were unbound did the prisoner see fellow soldiers from his company on the bus.
In the territory controlled by Ukraine, soldiers, reporters, and volunteers were waiting. Along with Danylo Chebotaryov, 101 prisoners of war returned home at that time.
Danylo Chebotaryov’s ID card, issued to him while in captivity
Olenivka
In 1984, Medical-Labor Sanatorium No. 37 of the Donetsk Regional Internal Affairs Directorate was established on the grounds of an agricultural school. Ten years later, the facility was reorganized into Correctional Institution No. 120, and in 1999—into the Volnovakha Correctional Colony (No. 120). Until 2014, it was a medium-security correctional colony for men sentenced to imprisonment for the first time for serious and especially serious crimes.
The facility offered evening classes in partnership with the Volnovakha General Education School. Inmates also worked in seven workshops: woodworking, repair and toolmaking, a sawmill, consumer goods production, metalworking, sewing, and an auto repair shop. They manufactured, in particular, “Yegoz” fencing, fencing panels, granite paving stones, pallets, cinder blocks, work gloves, and other items.
The medical unit and the 11-bed inpatient ward were staffed by 13 specialists: a general practitioner, a dentist, a psychiatrist, and a radiologist. There was also a pharmacy. The Dokuchaevsk City Hospital was to have a separate ward for inmates.
Since 2014, the Olenivska Correctional Colony No. 120 of the State Penitentiary Service of Ukraine in Donetsk Oblast has been located in a territory where state authorities are temporarily not exercising their powers, in accordance with Order No. 1085-r of the Cabinet of Ministers of Ukraine dated November 7, 2014.
The Russian Federation is holding some Ukrainian prisoners of war there, including fighters from the “Azov” regiment, as well as civilian hostages who have not passed the so-called “filtration” process.
On the morning of July 29, 2022, the “DPR” group issued a statement alleging that the Ukrainian Armed Forces had fired a HIMARS rocket at the penal colony. Propagandists claimed that the attack was deliberate, targeting the barracks where Ukrainian prisoners of war who “began cooperating with the investigation” were being held. About 50 “Azov” prisoners were killed in the prison barracks, and approximately 70 more were wounded.
The Ukrainian side and the UN refuted the Russian lies about the HIMARS strike on the prison camp. According to findings released by Prosecutor General Andriy Kostin, the method of killing was a thermobaric weapon.
A year after the attack, the International Center for Human Rights presented a reconstruction of the mass killing of “Azov” fighters, which the Russians had planned in advance. A week before the killings, they compiled a list of “Azov” fighters, who were then gathered in a separate barracks. On the night of the attack, three explosions were heard. The first occurred outside the barracks; the other two took place inside.
As of July 2023, the Office of the Prosecutor General still could not determine the Russians’ motives for blowing up the barracks housing the prisoners.
Author: Nadiya Zinchenko
Danilo Chebotarev, a 21-year-old National Guard soldier, spent nine months in captivity in two penal colonies in the occupied territory of Donetsk Oblast.
In April 2021, the young man from Pereyaslav was drafted into the National Guard of Ukraine for his mandatory military service. He served in Mariupol, in the convoy company of the 12th Special Operations Brigade of the National Guard of Ukraine. From February 28, 2022, the conscript remained in the besieged city. After escaping from the blockaded Azovstal plant, he ended up in a penal colony in Olenivka; three months later, he was transferred to Horlivka; he was released in February 2023 as part of a prisoner exchange.
After undergoing rehabilitation at three hospitals in Kyiv, Danylo is now serving again—in the National Guard’s “Azov” regiment. The young man tells “Novynarnia” about his prison experience and life in captivity.
“I was finally able to wash my hands properly a month and a half after being taken prisoner.”
Danylo Chebotarev in the ranks of the National Guard
…The news that a 20-year-old soldier had been taken captive from “Azovstal” came as a tremendous shock. Danylo says he was initially skeptical of this information. But according to an official order dated May 15May 15 through May 21, 2022, all 2,500 defenders of Mariupol who remained at the plant—the “Azov” Regiment, border guards, and marines— and the Territorial Defense Forces—were transported by bus to the barracks of the penal colony in Olenivka, located in the occupied Kalmius district of Donetsk Oblast.
The initial plan was to distribute them among the barracks. Once the commotion died down, the registration procedures began.
Before the prisoners were brought to Olenivka, the “Deneris” were in charge there. Then the “Rusaks,” as Danylo calls them, took over.
At first, more than 600 people lived on the second floor of the barracks alone, even though it was designed to accommodate no more than 200 people. Three people slept on each bed; some slept under the beds or in the hallways. They walked carefully so as not to step on someone’s arm or leg.
Three days passed, and the “Azov” soldiers were moved to barracks 9–10 and 1–2.
During the first month, there were two phases—many were taken to other “zones.”
500-liter barrels were set up for the prisoners of war. A fire truck would come periodically to fill the barrels.
“The first month, I was in shock from what was happening, so I just slept. I’d wake up to go to the bathroom and eat. I was very surprised when water started flowing through the pipes. Because we’d come in dirty, and we’d been sitting there like that for about a month. It was raining; we had a table, and we’d scoop water from it with our hands to wash them. “I was able to wash my hands properly after a month and a half,” recalls Danylo Chebotaryov.
Once the pipes were repaired, the water supply became more or less stable.
“One man knew something about electricity. He made a homemade kettle. It consisted of one thin wooden strip and two metal strips tied together with string, to which wires were attached. We plugged each of these wires—the ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ ones—into an outlet and heated water. We had an apricot tree and a grapevine growing there—we’d pluck leaves from them or break off branches and brew tea that way.”
“I wanted to dry a piece of bread so I could take it out and smell it, because I was afraid I’d forget the smell.”
We woke up at 6:00 a.m. to the “pidorpesny,” that is, the Russian national anthem. At first, the “Azov” fighters sang the Ukrainian anthem: that is, the Russian anthem was playing, but the “Azov” fighters confidently sang “Shche ne vmerla.” At first, the administration was shocked by such defiance, but then they recovered and punished them. The “Azov” fighters were punished repeatedly. And just to be safe, their barracks were kept under constant surveillance so they wouldn’t communicate with the other prisoners, Chebotarev says.
Then everyone went to their sleeping quarters and waited for breakfast at 7:00 a.m. For the first month, the prisoners were fed extremely poorly. Danylo lost 23 kg while in captivity. Given his tall stature, the weight loss was very noticeable. When he met his mother, Lesya, he later told her that he hadn’t tasted bread for two months.
Danylo even wanted to dry out a piece of bread so he could take it out and smell it—he was afraid of forgetting the scent.
“Mom, have you seen those photos where a newly released prisoner is looking at an apple? We all looked at bread like that!” says Danylo.
Lesya’s mother cries and recalls that when they met, she wasn’t hugging her son, but a skeleton wrapped in a jacket. Danylo is 190 cm tall. When he arrived in Horlivka from Olenivka, he weighed 57 kg; when he left, he weighed 63 kg.
In the morning, they were given porridge: barley, pearl barley, and wheat. There could have been more food: someone from the “Azov” leadership had arranged to have their own food delivered.
The young man recounts: “There were two trucks with food parked near the ‘zone.’ Food was taken from them to the dining hall. But it never made it to the tables. There was no fish or meat in the dishes. However, there might have been strands of meat floating in the soup, along with fish tails and heads. For lunch, there was water with a couple of potatoes, a few strips of beet, and carrots. The Russians call this ‘shchi.’ There was also sauerkraut floating in it.
We were given white bread. At first, they put imported round loaves on the tables, cut into four pieces; later, into eight: they gradually cut back on the bread ration.
They served tea in the morning and at dinner, sometimes brewed a second or third time. However, it was sweetened only every other time.
Those who worked in the kitchen didn’t skimp on the ingredients. They added the minimum amount of butter. For lunch, they prepared only soup. For dinner—wheat or barley porridge. Barley groats were served very rarely. There was also sauerkraut for dinner. But if they cooked cabbage soup for lunch, they wouldn’t serve cabbage in the evening.”
The camp commander forbade everyone—both staff and prisoners—from picking fruit from the trees on the grounds. It was easier for the administration staff to break this rule: they’d pick a piece of fruit when no one was looking, eat it, and forget about it. It wasn’t the same for the prisoners of war: unless a cherry happened to fall, someone would dash out of the ranks and experience a moment of joy.
At every meal, the prisoners could only watch as fruit fell or rotted on the trees. This took a psychological toll, Danilo recalls.
“The sign was still there—‘club.’ Prisoners were taken there for interrogations, torture, and DNA testing.”
“The guard on duty selected a group of people for work. That group would go to work. The work crew had its own privileges: they went to meals not three times, but five or six times. The work was like this: sweeping in front of the ‘club,’ for example. That was the Rusaks’ headquarters. Only the sign remained—‘club.’ Prisoners were taken there for interrogations, torture, DNA testing, and fingerprinting. Investigators would come from Donetsk and run a search in the database for all the information about a prisoner: who he was, where he lived, where he served (if he served), and so on. They recruited prisoners from the Donetsk region or Crimea: “Why did you turn against us? You’re from Crimea—so you’re one of us.”
If some prisoners of war rebelled or lost their minds, they were immediately taken to the isolation ward,” Danilo continues. “It’s a cell-like room where they could do whatever they wanted to them—torture them, beat them.”
There was this guy—it’s hard to call him a staff member—a local thug from the “DPR” who tortured people—hanging them by their genitals or beating them to death. The prisoners called him “Kiryusha.”
In fact, he was on a business trip to Olenivka—probably showing his colleagues how to torture prisoners of war. Then he returned to Horlivka and served there as the head of one of the shifts in the administration.”
At eight o’clock in the morning, the administration would hand over the shift, and each time they would come to check on the prisoners—to see how many were there and whether anyone had escaped. There was also a roll call at 8:00 p.m.
The captives were reminded to take care of themselves: to wash and get their hair cut, because there were fleas in the barracks.
Ukrainian captive medics examined all the sick prisoners. At first, this was done weekly; later, daily. Common illnesses among the prisoners included diarrhea and back pain. There was a shortage of painkillers, so not everyone received them.
Life in the Barracks
“In reality, we always had time to ourselves. Some people read books or slept, but in Horlivka, sleeping was strictly forbidden: the punishment was 200 squats, 20 lashes, or something else. Some people talked or did crafts, such as making cigarette holders. Some even ran a little business: selling bread or uniforms to the “vertukhai”—the guards from the administration—in exchange for cigarettes. Or they’d trade hryvnias or dollars for cigarettes.
The “vertukhai” got the cigarettes. $100 per pack.
Then these cigarettes were distributed throughout the barracks, because people had money too, and that’s how they made a living. For example, a “vertukha” would sell you a carton of cigarettes for 2,500 dollars, and you’d resell it [retail] throughout the barracks for 4,000. Some bought a pack, others bought two. This business went on until the searches took place. Every month, when the shift changed, “guards” from different regions of Russia would arrive and search the prisoners. They found silver, gold, and money. The prisoners hid their valuables wherever they could: in the toilet, wedged into cracks between bricks, or buried with whatever materials were at hand—pieces of slate—somewhere on the grounds.
The first shift of the administration conducted a search.
They allegedly found a total of 500,000 hryvnias and 40,000 dollars in cash on the prisoners.”
Text messages to loved ones for a piece of bread
There was a Bible in the colony, and even in Ukrainian. Danylo read it. There was no priest in Olenivka. Instead, at the 27th colony in Horlivka, prisoners were taken to a room to see a priest of the Moscow Patriarchate, who told them that the Russian Patriarchate was the best, and that the rest had gone astray. There was no Communion; just a one-and-a-half-hour lecture with a prayer. He didn’t force them to pray, though. The priest read passages from the Bible and interpreted them as he saw fit.
Games, movies, and cards were banned in both colonies. In Olenivka, someone had backgammon and dominoes. But they had to be hidden so the “guards” wouldn’t take them away. For the first few months, playing wasn’t forbidden, but restrictions were later imposed.
In Olenivka, searches were often conducted hastily, so it was possible to sneak a phone in. It’s strange that Olenivka is located far from a cell tower, but cell service worked there, says Danylo. You could send text messages and make calls.
You could even pick up Ukrainian Radio. Until September 1, Danylo was up to date on all the news. Then he was transferred to Horlivka. There, such a luxury as communication wasn’t to be expected, and smuggling anything in seemed impossible.
In Olenivka, in exchange for bread, you could ask someone with a phone to send a text message to your family. Sometimes the guys even watched movies on their smartphones—ones they’d downloaded back when they were still fighting in Mariupol. But an order came to hand over the phones, or else they were threatened with searches. Danila, an officer from the barracks, handed his over.
They weren’t allowed to write paper letters. That opportunity only arose in Horlivka, just before they were released for the exchange.
“Exchanges can fall through. Among those announced, there may be someone who refuses to leave.”
There’s no logic to how the Russians compile the exchange list, says Chebotarev. An administration official comes and reads out the names from a sheet of paper. He reads out 15 names and orders them to pack civilian clothes and belongings. In the best-case scenario, these lucky ones are taken away the next day. Those left behind don’t know where the people were taken or why they were taken away.
“It was a typical day; breakfast and lunch had come and gone. It was sunny but cold. In Horlivka, the prisoners walked around in slippers until December,” recalls Danylo. “I popped into the boiler room, the only place in the barracks where it was warm. About five minutes later, I heard my last name called. I asked the guys what was going on. They told me that Mykola Mykolayovych was calling me. He was the shift supervisor, one of the decent guys. He treated the prisoners humanely. Mykola Mykolayovych ordered us to pack our things and get ready for transport. With each transport to the colony, the guards take our belongings—mostly clothes. They take whatever they like. I handed my belongings out to my fellow prisoners and waited. Time dragged on slowly.”
It’s worth noting here that exchanges can sometimes fall through. This is how it happens: among ten people, there might be someone who refuses to leave. In that case, the entire group is sent back to the “zone.” Reasons for refusal include: prison may be waiting at home after the exchange because he committed crimes or deserted his unit without permission. Or he may have a wife and family in the occupied territory and hopes to be released soon to join them.
On the day Chebotaryov was told about the exchange, the guys wrote their relatives’ phone numbers on the folds of his clothes.
The next day, Danila was finally exchanged. Before lunch, they were told to get ready and hand over their “bedding”—a mattress, pillow, towel, bedspread, and blanket. They took him to the search cell and searched him.
They led Danilo to the gate, ordered him to sit down—head down, hands behind his head. A cramped car was waiting outside the gate. They forced him to put on a hood and wrapped it tightly with duct tape; they also wrapped his hands very tightly with the same tape. They put him in the car. There were three prisoners in the car in total. They picked each one up separately.
Later, on the bus, the guards threatened: “If you get caught a second time, you won’t make it out.” Upon hearing this threat, Danylo Chebotaryov finally realized that they were indeed taking him toward Ukraine. He couldn’t believe it.
It was February 16, 2023. Only after his hands and head were unbound did the prisoner see fellow soldiers from his company on the bus.
In the territory controlled by Ukraine, soldiers, reporters, and volunteers were waiting. Along with Danylo Chebotaryov, 101 prisoners of war returned home at that time.
Danylo Chebotaryov’s ID card, issued to him while in captivity
Olenivka
In 1984, Medical-Labor Sanatorium No. 37 of the Donetsk Regional Internal Affairs Directorate was established on the grounds of an agricultural school. Ten years later, the facility was reorganized into Correctional Institution No. 120, and in 1999—into the Volnovakha Correctional Colony (No. 120). Until 2014, it was a medium-security correctional colony for men sentenced to imprisonment for the first time for serious and especially serious crimes.
The facility offered evening classes in partnership with the Volnovakha General Education School. Inmates also worked in seven workshops: woodworking, repair and toolmaking, a sawmill, consumer goods production, metalworking, sewing, and an auto repair shop. They manufactured, in particular, “Yegoz” fencing, fencing panels, granite paving stones, pallets, cinder blocks, work gloves, and other items.
The medical unit and the 11-bed inpatient ward were staffed by 13 specialists: a general practitioner, a dentist, a psychiatrist, and a radiologist. There was also a pharmacy. The Dokuchaevsk City Hospital was to have a separate ward for inmates.
Since 2014, the Olenivska Correctional Colony No. 120 of the State Penitentiary Service of Ukraine in Donetsk Oblast has been located in a territory where state authorities are temporarily not exercising their powers, in accordance with Order No. 1085-r of the Cabinet of Ministers of Ukraine dated November 7, 2014.
The Russian Federation is holding some Ukrainian prisoners of war there, including fighters from the “Azov” regiment, as well as civilian hostages who have not passed the so-called “filtration” process.
On the morning of July 29, 2022, the “DPR” group issued a statement alleging that the Ukrainian Armed Forces had fired a HIMARS rocket at the penal colony. Propagandists claimed that the attack was deliberate, targeting the barracks where Ukrainian prisoners of war who “began cooperating with the investigation” were being held. About 50 “Azov” prisoners were killed in the prison barracks, and approximately 70 more were wounded.
The Ukrainian side and the UN refuted the Russian lies about the HIMARS strike on the prison camp. According to findings released by Prosecutor General Andriy Kostin, the method of killing was a thermobaric weapon.
A year after the attack, the International Center for Human Rights presented a reconstruction of the mass killing of “Azov” fighters, which the Russians had planned in advance. A week before the killings, they compiled a list of “Azov” fighters, who were then gathered in a separate barracks. On the night of the attack, three explosions were heard. The first occurred outside the barracks; the other two took place inside.
As of July 2023, the Office of the Prosecutor General still could not determine the Russians’ motives for blowing up the barracks housing the prisoners.
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